Batman on the Cheap
by philipherbertlegends
Summary: Can Bruce Wayne survive as a member of the 99%? Can Batman function when he's not a millionaire? AU with OC and Comics characters.
1. Chapter 1

Batman on the Cheap

_((This story is a mixture of Original Characters and Comics. Please Fave if you enjoyed the read! And check out my other stories!))_

Bruce looked over the letter for the third time.

_My Dear Master Wayne_, It began,

_I did not want to disturb you during your journeys. Heavens knows that the unfortunate death of your parents was enough of a blow to deal with. Unfortunately, now the moment has come that I impart on you an ugly truth._

_During your absence Wayne Enterprises suffered through what I believe could be accurately termed a hostile takeover. Lexcorp Industries assumed a controlling stake in your parents assets, and began selling them off at as fast a rate as humanly possible. What this means, sir, in plain English, is that your parents enterprise is no more._

_And you yourself, have a much more limited inheritance to deal with._

_I have liquidated all the assets I was able in order to provide you with a trust fund to operate from. This fund shall make regular deposits into a bank account in your name at the rate of approximately fifty thousand dollars annually. I realize this shall not afford you the lifestyle you are accustomed to, but that day is done. The ship is sailed and will not return._

_As for myself, I have personally abscombed back to my family home in Lancaster. Do not worry about my, Master Wayne. For my part and considerable skills I shall find work at a reasonable pace. I wish you and yours the best of luck in the future and the best possible fortune in life._

_Your former servant,_

_Alfred J. Pennyworth_

The letter had been left in an envelope in the locked gates in front of Wayne Manor. A sign on the gate read Soon to become a valuable LEXCORP property! Beyond that Bruce could see the overgrown weeds and grass that had come up on the lot.

He put a hand on the lock. There were several ways of dealing with this, he thought, that had come from his training overseas. At least two ways to break the lock with his hands, or the chain, and he had his lockpicking equipment with him, of course. But beyond that...

Beyond that there was really no reason he could think of to start squatting in his parents mansion. The power was off, for one thing, and for another the house by itself was useless. It was the wealth that it represented that was useful. He had counted on his parents near limitless resources to deal with the problem of how to begin his war.

"Hey buddy." The cabbie said behind him. "The meters running. What do yuh want me to do here huh? This old place gives me the creeps."

Bruce shook out the envelope. There was a key ring with house and car keys on it, and an address for downtown Gotham. "Take me here." Bruce said. And the cab sped off, without anyone looking back.

Gotham Trace Apartments was located in a more "gentrified" part of Bentley. At number 610 Bruce tried the key and found an additional suprise. It was a two bedroom apartment, furnished with what he could tell was various pieces of furniture from the mansion. It looked old and stodgy here, like a senior citizen forced to move his belongings, massed up over the years, into a retirement home. So this is it then, he thought. This is all thats left. It was good of Alfred to arrange something for me, still.

The car key belonged to a black Kia Optima, which Bruce quickly found to be the most boring mid size sedan he had ever driven. He took it out for a quick serviallance mission around the neighborhood. Alfred had arranged his apartment in the good part of Bentley. But it only took a short trip in order for the city to get ugly. Soon he was seeing the true face of Gotham. Boarded up crack houses, liqour stores, and pawn shops. Sirens that were somehow always in the distance, never close enough to do anything about the problem. _Maybe its a blessing_, he thought. _I'm close enough to do something about all this, to fight my war._

Ka-chunk!

Underneath his car hit a pothole. There were enourmous ones here, that liberally decorated the streets. Panic flashed through Bruces mind. He thought of repair bills that would come, or the ugly reality that would occur if he were to simply break down in this area. He quicly sped out.

When he arrived back at Gotham Trace, a very attractive blond was struggling with what looked like a mountain of groceries. They were all in those re-usable cloth bags that upscale grocery stores sell. Suddenly she gave out a yelp, and the whole thing started to collapse in on itself. Bruce ran up to her quickly, and grabbled the pile before it could make its way to the floor. A single orange managed to roll out, and he snatched it up quickly, using his ninja training.

"Jesus!" The blond said, "I mean, holy crap."

"This stuff was about to fall." Bruce said, unnecessarily.

"You sure are fast." The blonde said.

"Its a gift."

The blonde turned the lock. "Would you mind coming inside?" She said. "Just to set that stuff down."

"Sure." Bruce said.

"I'm Vicki, by the way."

"Bruce."

The minute he stepped into the apartment, he was face to face with an obsession.

One entire wall was covered from top to bottom with newspaper and magazine clippings. There were headlines like METROPOLIS 'BLUR' SAVES AIRPLANE and A NEW WAR MACHINE FOR THE TROOPS. Bruce recognized it, at least most of the faces. They were the superheroes.

Vicki laughed. "Its kind of embarrassing." She said.

"Why?" Bruce said. "You have a hobby."

"Its more than that." She said. "I write a blog."

"A blog, and a hobby."

"No." Vicki said, "What I mean is, I write a Blog for the Gotham Gazette. On Superheroes. And it gets a lot of traffic. Its what I'm reduced to, with my journalism degree."

"How does all that go?"

"It goes great." Vicki said. "There's so much interest in these guys. You've got this one-" She pointed to Superman, "And he's supposed to be an alien."

"Whats he doing in that picture, flying?" Bruce asked.

"I don't think he can fly." Vicki said. "But he can leap buildings."

"Leap?"

"Like jump over them. Really tall buildings."

"Huh."

"And he's really, really, strong. And then there's this guy." She pointed to the picture of War Machine. "And he's a US Soldier, in an experimental armor. So he's really the first state sponsered Superhero."

"Where did that name come from?" Bruce asked.

"Superhero?" Vicki rolled her eyes. "Ugh." She said. "This chick from the Daily Planet. At least she was from the Daily Planet, she got out of newspapers recently and landed a spot on CNN. Anyway, her names Lois Lane. And she landed the first on camera interview with Superman."

"Really?"

"Only they didnt call him Superman, then. You see that symbol on his shirt?"

"The 'S'?"

"Right. That's not an S. Its a Alien symbol, like from an alien language. But she saw it as an 'S', and came up with the name, Superman. And then the title 'Superheroes', for lots of supermen, or women or whatever."

Bruce looked across at all the clippings. It looked less crazy to him, somehow. Like there were deeper patterns emerging. "Does Gotham have one of these guys?" He asked.

"No." Sighed Vicki. "Thats really something seriously effed-up about this city. We have one of the highest crime rates in the country. So along come these powered up vigilantes, and we dont have one. Do you have any idea what something like that would do for my career?"

"What would it do?"

"Give me something new to talk about, for one. I mean, once Gotham-super-man landed, if he made a big enough impression, that would make my career. I might be able to get major network coverage, provided things played out in the right way." Vicki squeezed his arm affectionately. "Your a pretty big guy. Can you bend steel bars, or anything? We might have to hang out sometime."

The comedian smiled anxiously at his wife. "Its just a job, right? Just a way to make money."

His wife rubbed her hands over her pregnant belly. The thing hung between them like an orb. "You promised me."

"Christ, Charlene, not this again."

Her eyes were starting to glisten. "But you did.

"Okay." Jack put his hands up. "Okay, okay okay. Lets look at this from a little perspective. Can we try to do that, please?"

Charlene nodded.

"In the first place, we have debts. Pretty bad debts, to some pretty bad people. I'm not going to quote any numbers-"

"Thank you." She added.

"Or try to assign any blame. Because all of that's counter-productive. What is productive, is to determine what we can do to make more money."

"The root of all evil."

"Whats that?"

"Sorry, go ahead."

"Okay. Anyway, I could work the clubs."

"You could work the clubs."

"Except I cant work the clubs."

"Why not?" Charlene asked.

"Because, Jesus." Tears were streaming down Jacks cheeks. "Do you have any idea what that's like? How humiliating that is? To go up on stage night after night, and no one applauds, or acts like your even present? And at the end there's no tips. And then you see the good acts coming on, and they kill it, man. They totally kill it, and you're there wondering what am I doing wrong?"

"But your funny, Jack."

"Dont tell me that crap." Jack snapped. "If I'm funny at all, even on stage, its not funny haha. Its funny sad. Its funny pathetic. And thats what my life is right now. Its the pathetic story of the stand-up comedian that cant afford to make rent or insurance for his wife, so he has to go out and do what he has to do."

"Why so serious?"

"Huh?" Jack said.

"I mean." Charlene said. "If your trying to be funny, you shouldn't be so serious. I'm only saying."

Jack Napier reached across the table and slapped his pregnant wife. She screamed more in surprise than pain, and then he was whispering sorry, sorry, sorry, but it was already too late. She was out the door and into the other bedroom of the one bedroom apartment. Where the crib was located. He was a fool and he knew it, and as he left out the front door he knew he was only doing what he had to do.

Bruce was having that dream again.

In the dream he was chasing the rabbit, and the ground gave way beneath him. He was falling, far, impossibly far. He was going to die.

The ground met him with a smooth embrace. It was close, too close, and smooth and cool beneath his weight. His leg was starting to throb with dull pain from where he had sprained it. Beyond the circle of light, cast up by the ground above, he saw the loving faces of his parents.

He was kneeling in a circle of blood.

His parents were dead now. The bullet had caught his mother below the jaw, and his father twice, in the chest. His mothers pearls were scattered haphazardly along with the blood. There was a deep sense of wrong in his heart. As if there were anything he could do to prevent this. The one moment in his life.

He heard his voice ask Vicki _"Does Gotham have one of these guys?"_

He saw the picture of Superman. Superman leaping tall buildings, on the apex of parabolic arch, and in that half instant the enourmous bat was there from his early dream, swallowing the hero whole, and Superman was screaming, and the bat was screaming, the horrible new thing that had come up out of whole cloth from Bruce's damaged mind. He woke up, and knew what he had to do.


	2. Chapter 2

It took nearly a week to assemble all the equipment necessary. Amazon proved to be invaluable. You could order nearly anything off Amazon, these days.

Black tactical boots. Black 5.11. tactical pants. A plain black Under Armor t-shirt, long sleeve. Yellow decal for the chest insignia. Black tactical gloves, like the troops in Iraq used, with hardened plastic knuckles. Blackhawk tactical pouches, and webbing to attach them.

For the cape and cowl he used nylon rip stop parachute cord. That part required a little bit of sewing, which turned out to be a trial and error process.

For equipment he had most of what he had gathered while training overseas. CS Gas grenades, throwing stars. A small rebreather. Tactical line and a grappling hook. Bruce looked at the equipment ruefully, spread out as it was on the bed. _I had other ideas,_ he thought. _Something with a car, maybe. Still, this will be enough to start. A beginning._

It was midnight when he packed his things, and drove out to the rougher end of Bentley. He parked his car in a parking garage, popped the trunk, and changed into his new uniform.

The first one was a drug dealer.

Drug deals were a pretty simple thing. A car pulled up, and the dealer leaned over. Money and a small bag were exchanged. There was a small alley not far behind the dealer. He kept glancing back, but Bruce was good at keeping to the shadows. And moving up quietly, keeping to the corner of vision, but fast, until he had the buyer hand in his own grip. He brought it down quickly. The junkie had the window rolled halfway down on his Mercedes, and the glass smashed in his palm. While the junkie was screaming the dealer went for something which might have been a gun or a knife, and Bruce snapped his wrist back, farther than it would normally go, until he heard a satisfying crack. He punched the dealer in the right place so he would go limp, and then hoisted him over his shoulder, running full tilt back for the alley.

After that, it was a game of patience.

When the dealer woke up, his first words were, "Aw, man, whas this onmy face?"

"Do you know who I am?" Bruce said, using his other voice, the demon voice he had been working on.

"Naw, man." The dealer said, wriggling, "You kicked my ass, got me all tied up..."

"I'm the worst nightmare you've ever had." Bruce said. "The kind that makes you wet your bed in the morning..."

The dealer giggled. "Okay, man. Whatever you said. I mean, I dont know what your into..."

Bruce took the blindfold off. It was tough work, hauling the dealer up twenty floors over the fire escape. But the scream alone was worth it. After that the dealer gave up the names, and an address...

Lieutenant James Gordon tried to keep things in perspective. The coffee and cigarette helped. Sarah at home, with the two boys, that helped too. Being a cop was a lot like being a garbageman, he reasoned, only being a Detective was doubly so. You just sifted through the garbage after it was dumped on the floor and tried to come up with patterns it could fit.

The house in Bentley was obviously a drug house. It had the right combination of peeling paint, bars on the windows, and overly ostentatious vehicle parked in the driveway. Now it was also liberally decorated with yellow crime scene tape. _If the President pushed a button, Gordon reasoned, and a drone strike took out this entire neighborhood, no one would miss it._ Then a child rode by, on his bike. Gordon shook his head, ashamed of his thoughts. Everyone deserved to grow up safe, even in Gotham. The Police had to be here to help. So he walked up the steps, past the Ambulance, and asked the officer what his name was, and what was going on.

"John Blake, sir." The officer said. "And as far as I can tell, no one died in here."

"Then who called the cops?" Gordon asked. "This is Bentley. No one calls the cops unless there's been shooting."

"Well, there was shooting." Officer Blake said. "And plenty of it."

"But no one died."

"Thats right."

"Walk me through the scene." Gordon said.

"Well, sir." Blake said, "First our perp came in through the back door."

"Did he now."

"My guess was he saw the man on the porch with the sawed-off. And he decided to come that way."

"Makes sense."

"Now, in the back they've got a Pit Bull. But the damn things been asleep for the last few hours. We checked it out with a vet, and found this." Blake held up a plastic bag with a small dart in it.

"What the heck is this?" Gordon asked.

"Its a blow dart." Blake said.

"Your kidding me. Like in Indiana Jones?"

"I guess so. Apparently that kind of thing works."

"Go ahead."

"So, after putting the dog to sleep with the blow dart, our perp kicks in the back door. Now the door comes off its hinges, so we figure that he used some kind of metal ram."

"Take a look right there."

"What is that?"

"Its a boot print."

"Huh. So he kicked it down."

"Whoever this guy is, he's strong as an ox."

"Okay. So he kicks down the door. Now, there's four male residents, and one female resident. Three of the male residents are armed, sitting in the living room."

"The other male?"

"He's ah, occupied with the female at the time."

"Okay."

"So, one of the male residents, he discharges his illegal firearm in the direction of the perp. Which goes way wide. Then the perp throws these." Blake pointed to a shiny object sticking in the wall.

"What is that?"

"That is a throwing star."

"Your kidding."

"No sir, Detective. We found three of those embedded in the vic's arm. That one in the wall must have gone wide."

"Okay." Gordon took a sip of his coffee. It was about the perfect temperature now, that the initial heat had come off it. "What next?"

"Next, the perp physically assaults all three victims. Multiple lacerations and broken bones."

"One on three?"

"Yes sir. Two of which were still armed."

Gordon laughed. "How did that go?"

"All three vic's are still in Gotham County. All of them had priors, and two of them have active warrants out. So we've got officers watching those two."

Gordon wagged his pen in the direction of the bedroom. "That leaves the last guy, in the bedroom doing the nasty."

Blake grinned. That's were it gets really interesting. We found a camera."

"A Camera?"

"Evidently the last vic was making a, ah, personal video, of his encounter."

"No kidding."

"And thats where it gets cool."

The video starts in a fairly uninteresting way, outside of the real of generic urban pornography. An out of shape man is having intercourse with a much more attractive woman. Then the door breaks down, and the light bulb breaks. But the camera has night vision.

The perpetrator is visible in his costume, cape and pointy ears. He is wide and tall. When he grabs the victim, a certain mid level drug dealer named "lil B", the man starts to scream. The perpetrator leans in close, and starts to whisper something in his ear. The naked woman in the corner grabs a robe and hurries out of the room, looking somewhat less panicked than the situation allots for.

"Okay." Gordon says. "Let me have the camera and whatever else this is recorded on. You did real good work here, Officer Blake. If you want I'll talk to Captain Merkel about getting you to Homicide."

Blake was a good cop. But he was a good cop by Gotham standards. In his phone was the speed dial for a Ms. Vale at the Gazette, and in his pocket was a memory stick with a copy of the video from earlier. He was going to ask for five grand. Five to start with, and more if she wanted an anonymous statement.

The first thing Bruce thought of when he woke up, at noon the next day, is I need friends if this is going to work.

Taking down the first gang-banger and getting him to talk was no problem. The house with the second one was a little more difficult, but he hadn't been shot. And lil B had given him two items of value, the name of his narcotics supplier, and a briefcase full of one point five million dollars.

The trick was, what to do next.

Lil B had mentioned Mario Falcone, a member of the Falcone crime family. The Falcone's didn't live in Bentley, for one thing. They lived in the Palisades, mostly, along with the Mayor and the District Attorney. Getting in and out of there unnoticed would be... tricky at least.

But beyond that, how was he going to go about doing any good?

He could break into one of their Penthouse suites, or mansions, and beat the hell out of them. But that might even bring the cops down on his head. And getting away from the situation was going to be tough. What I need to do, Bruce thought, is break them from the inside, and have someone on the outside ready to put them in jail.

The second problem was on cash flow. What kind of good was the money in the case going to do him? None of his needs could be settled with cash. And people remembered a man that paid in large bills. When the police came knocking, it increased the chances that he was going to be caught. And that meant prison.

A name exploded into Bruce's head, completely unbidden. He Googled it until he found a street address, then hopped into his slightly beat up Optima and took off.

"For Christ sake." one of the other guys in the van said. "Could you stop sweating?"

"I'm sorry." Jack said. "I'm just nervous."

"What do you do?" He was asked.

"I do stand-up."

"No, moron, I mean, what do you do when we get to the joint, were about to knock off?"

"Uh." Jack said, "I'm going to put on the head, and ask them for the money."

"Wrong again, jerk-off."

"Sorry."

"What your going to do is, have the hood already on. The cape too. And your going to tell them to give you the money, not ask for anything. Were robbing them, remember."

"Sorry."

The other guy leaned in close. "At some point Falcone's getting a cut of this deal. So don't be sorry, just get it right. Sorry people end up dead in this organization."

No one talked for a minute. The van bumped along.

"What did you mean with that?" The other guy asked. "When you said you did stand-up."

"I'm a comedian." Jack said.

"No way!" The other guy said.

"Yeah."

"Do something funny."

"A rabbits hopping along in the woods." Jack says. "And he sees a bear. So he's bugging out, right? But the bear acts all nice to him. The bear says, 'mister rabbit, how are you doing today?' and the rabbit answers him, 'very well mister bear, how are you?' and then the bear asks, 'say, mister rabbit, is your fur nice and soft?' and the rabbit says, 'why yes it is.' So the bear takes the rabbit and goes schwoop!"

The other guy busts up laughing.

"I dont get it."

"The bear wiped his butt with the rabbit."

"That was the schwoop?"

"That was the schwoop."

"Why would the bear do that?"

"I dont know, because bears crap in the woods!"

The one guy laughs, and the other guy shakes his head, saying, "You're the worst comedian I've ever seen."

"Hey." The first guy says, wiping his eyes. "Don't listen to him. You're a regular Joker."


	3. Chapter 3

The Wayne Foundation was located in an indescript office building leased out to a variety of firms and corporations. The one that happened to be next door was a drug testing center, and Bruce surmised that he was in the wrong place when he was handed a small plastic cup and told not to drink more than three cups, or the sample would be ruined. In the right office, finally, a bored looking Guatamalian secretary ushered Bruce Wayne in to see Lucius Fox.

"So you came back." Lucius said, smiling. The two men started with a handshake that led to a warm embrace. Bruce was startled by the depth of his emotions. Two men had been there for him, after the deaths of his parents, Alfred, and Lucius. Its impossible for me to give up either one, he thought. I have to find alfred, eventually, and make him understand.

"I'm back." Bruce said. He handed Lucius the note from Alfred. The older man took out a pair of reading glasses, and looked it over.

"Unfortunately, this pretty much sums it up." Lucius said. "Things didnt turn out very well while you were gone, Mr. Wayne."

"Is there anything we can do to restore the family trust?" Bruce asked.

"You have a good case for litigation." Lucius said. "The board sold off your assets while you were absent. You had a thirty percent stake in the corporation that pretty much dissapeared. If I were you I would hire a good lawyer."

"I'm hearing a catch." Bruce said.

"The catch, Mr. Wayne, is that the company you had a controlling interest in no longer exists. Its been swallowed up by Lexcorp. You would have to sue primaraly for monetary damages. And since those would come out to the millions, the legal battle would be drawn out over years."

Bruce was quiet for a moment. "What about the foundation?" He asked. "What does it do?"

"I currently oversee a variety of charitable interest. Mostly involving disadvantaged youth in Gotham, and scholarships. Much as I'd like to see your wealth restored, Mr. Wayne, I'm afraid I cant let you pillage the coffers to do it."

"Are you good with money, Mr. Fox?"

"I know a few tricks."

"I have an unusual request."

Lucius stood over the trunk of the Optima, looking at the bundles of hundred dollar bills in the duffel bag.

"Its at least a million." Lucius said. "Maybe even two. I dont suppose I want to know where you got it from."

"You probably dont."

He flipped through the cash. "You'll want an overseas bank account. Preferably swiss. No questions asked, no alarm bells raised. Deposit more than five grand cash in an American bank and it sets off all kinds of red flags."

"Can you handle it for me?"

Lucius nodded. "On two conditions."

"Name them."

"First, some of this needs to make its way to the Foundation."  
"Of course."  
"Second, I get to use some of this to retain a law firm to get back at Lexcorp. On your behalf, of course, Mr. Wayne."  
"Of course. We need to arrange some media too for that effect."  
"Thinking about getting back in the public eye?"  
"I think Lexcorp was only able to pull this stunt because I was out of it, in the first place."  
Lucius smiled. "Its good to see you again."  
Bruce raised his hand. "I have a second request."  
"Another bag of money?"  
"Not quite. I was reading online. Something called the experimental weapons division?"  
Lucius took out a notebook out of his pocket. He scribbled down an address and tore it off for Bruce. "Come by over yonder by eight o clock." Lucius winked. "I'll show you something interesting."

Patience Philips worked the phones for Kyle escorts. There wasnt much to it, really. Take the John's information, explain that any payment would only be for companionship, (in case it was a cop) and arrange a meeting. She didnt have to work today. She might not work tomorrow, either. She was thinking about up and quitting the business, getting out of the game completely.  
For the last three years Patience had been turning tricks. Her specialty was whips and leather, domination type stuff, and it suprised her how much the upper crust of Gotham was into the same thing. It paid better than waiting tables, or working at a convenience store. That was the kind of life available for Patience. The way she saw it, she had come up to bat with two strikes at the plate, and she was the last out of the ninth inning.  
Patience had been the product of a teenage mother in Bentley, and a father who was not much older, but decidedly dumber. He was killed six months after Patience was born in a drive by shooting. Her mother had decidedly checked out after that.  
She was thinking about what had happened, the night before.  
The guy had been dressed up like a freak. Like dracula, or something. And he had completely taken apart the gangbangers in the house Patience had been sent to work. What was Gotham coming too? Still, she had thoughts about the future. The design she was working out was all black latex, something she could take from the BDSM stores that frequented Burnley. When she tried it on, she felt good, land found herself making a noise much like purring in her throat. The claws were her favorite part. She stood at the open window for some amount of time, before saying to herself, the hell with it, and walking to the fire escape. Up the fire escape, not down. For some reason patience wanted to get up to the roof, and really see the city. A flock of pigeons hung around the skylight, and she flexed her bullwhip once, cracking it in the air, sending them scattering. Things were changing in Gotham. The freak, whatever his name was, was a sign of things to come.


End file.
